


If I Believe In Death

by branwyn



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Abuse, Captivity, Douglas doesn't know if he wants to be Martin's dad or his boyfriend but they like it that way, Douglas knows what Martin's hair smells like, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Magical Realism, depictions of torture, epic Martin!whump, i'm starting to think hurt might be my comfort, no even more epic than my usual, whumping Douglas by whumping Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>if i believe in death be sure of this it is because you have loved me</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>for this prompt: http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/4207.html?thread=5204079#cmt5204079</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The moment Douglas clapped eyes on the skeletal figure in the ragged jacket, he knew it was Martin.

He didn't want to know it was Martin. After six months of denying, then fearing, then gradually sinking under the certainty that the worst must have happened, it ought to have filled Douglas with happiness to see the boy's face. And it did--the crashing relief of recognition is the nearest thing to joy he's felt in half a year.

But the moment he draws close enough to be absolutely certain of Martin's identity, he sees other things as well. A ragged scar at his throat, another, crescent-shaped scar over his left cheekbone. Enormous, bruised hollows under his eyes. An unaccountable profusion of small cuts, scratches and bruises across the backs of his hands. He's lost at least a stone, and Martin never had a stone to lose.

They're standing on a bridge and Martin is looking down over the low stone wall. He hasn't seen Douglas yet, because he's not looking at anything except the water, as though it holds a secret answer to a riddle that vexes him. 

Douglas is still standing a dozen yards away when Martin turns and begins to walk in his direction. He's limping, and it's an old limp, one he's grown adjusted to, not from a fresh injury. He's a walking concatenation of scars and damage, he looks like a car wreck embodied, and Douglas feels horror: not the angry, protective horror of a man whose friend has been hurt, but the horror of a human mind trying to comprehend a Hiroshima, a holocaust. He wants to run away before Martin sees him. He is lost, so entirely lost to the awareness that here stands a problem all his cleverness will never fix. Douglas is a proud, vain middle-aged and drooping sky god and he doesn't like problems he can't fix.

But all that falls away when Martin finally does look up, when they're about ten feet apart, and his eyes grow wide as their gaze lights upon Douglas's face. Because what Douglas sees in Martin's eyes is nothing so simple as recognition. It is hunger, the starved look of a man who had long ago lost hope of finding nourishment ever again only to stumble on a feast. And in that moment, Douglas realizes, _yes there is something I can do for him._ The terror of his own helplessness falls away, and he starts walking, then running, shouting Martin's name.

A shudder convulses Martin's body, and he turns, and runs.


	2. Chapter 2

Stop," Douglas pants, seizing Martin's shoulder. It's a mistake, he ought to have known better; Martin flinches, reeling away, like Douglas has come at him with a weapon, and his eyes are huge and black with terror. Douglas throws his hands up in the air and takes a step back, praying Martin won't run again. Martin stumbles against the railing of the bridge and stares at him, clutching for support.

"Please, Martin, for God's sakes, don't run away." He's desperate to touch him, but he doesn't dare, so he presses his palms to the sides of his head before letting them fall slack. "Please. I'm--God, you're _here_. I thought you were _dead_."

Martin blinks, reflexively, but he doesn't speak. His hands grip the stone railing tighter, but his shoulders relax slightly, and he no longer looks as though he's on the verge of springing away.

"What happened, Martin?" Douglas fights to keep his voice gentle, because he doesn't want to be gentle, he wants to grab Martin's shoulders again and shake him, because _damn_ the boy. How dare he be alive, all this time, and never let them _know_? "Do you have any idea what you've put us through?"

Martin shrinks at that, swallowing hard and dropping his eyes, and Douglas forces himself to stop, to wait for the maelstrom of conflicting emotions to die down a bit, because Martin never had the thickest of skins and now he looks like a heavy word might break him.

"You don't look well," says Douglas, trying his best to sound concerned, not accusing or repulsed. "Please, just--look, there are benches in that park over there, just--come and sit with me a moment?" 

When Martin doesn't answer (again) Douglas risks laying a hand on his arm, moving slowly, careful to telegraph everything he's doing so Martin can shy away if he doesn't want it. But Martin doesn't resist as Douglas gently tugs him along the pavement, over the green spring grass to a bench a few yards away from the children's playground, under the boughs of blooming trees. Martin looks terribly out of place in the cool, bright day. He looks like a creature of midwinter, a slender grey tree with dead branches that will snap in a strong wind. Douglas wants to wrap his coat around him. He nudges him onto the bench instead and sits with his body turned towards him.

"The police are still looking for you, I believe," says Douglas carefully. "At least, they haven't said anything about your turning up, and they would tell me--I was the one who filed the missing persons report."

Martin turns his head and looks at Douglas, surprised. Stupid boy, why should that shock him?

"Aren't you going to talk to me at all?" says Douglas. "You don't--have to tell me what happened, but--I don't believe I'm saying this, but I miss the sound of your voice."

Martin looks down at his knees for a few seconds, then a minute, then several minutes, and Douglas forces himself to remain patient and not press him. He occupies himself by attempting to deduce the origins of the physical damage etched into Martin's body. the scar on his neck looks too jagged to be the clean slide of a knife. It, and the scar on his face, look as though they might have been made by the edge of a broken bottle--Douglas has been in enough bar fights to be familiar with the sight. The limp could be anything, a hip injury from a fall. 

The fresh marks, the cuts and bruises on his hands, Douglas doesn't actually want to think about at the moment, because it suggests that whatever ordeal Martin has suffered, it isn't very far behind him. Christ, for all Douglas knows he might still be in some kind of danger. He finds himself looking around the park for signs of a threat, but all he sees are parents and children, blissfully unaware that for two people, worlds are falling apart and being rebuilt.

At last, Martin reaches into the pocket of his windbreaker, which is ragged, almost threadbare, with holes under the arms where the seams have ripped, and entirely inadequate protection against the weather. He takes out a biro, and to Douglas's consternation, writes one word on the back of his hand: _No._

"No?" Douglas frowns. "No--no, you're not going to talk to me?"

Martin nods.

That--hurts. Badly. And it makes the anger swell up again. In all Douglas's wildest daydreams of finding Martin again, he'd never envisioned a scenario in which Martin wouldn't even speak to him.

But then Martin writes another word on the back of his hand. _Can't._

Douglas's eyes come to settle on the scar at Martin's throat, and his stomach turns into lead. Martin sees him looking--then shakes his head. No, not the throat injury?

"So it isn't that you can't speak?"

Martin shakes his head again. It's a double negative, but Douglas thinks he knows what he means.

"Do you mean--you don't want to?" Douglas is groping his way toward an answer. "It--isn't that you don't want to talk to me, you just--don't wish to speak?"

Tension ebbs from Martin's shoulders, and he shrugs.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

The term, if Douglas recalls correctly from the one psychology class he took during his four-term stint as a medical student, is elective mutism: a condition often seen in people, particularly children, who have endured trauma. It is...frightening, to think what could be so bad as to rob a stuttering, babbling, and occasionally surprisingly eloquent man of the desire to speak. But at least he's willing to communicate. 

Martin is shuddering, though there isn't any wind, and his eyes are so dull that tears would be preferable. Douglas decides that the heart-to-heart can wait. Martin is a disaster, and disasters need triage. First things first.

"I think we should call the police," he says quietly, and he's ready for it when Martin jerks back, trying to stand. Douglas is there first, taking gentle, firm hold of Martin's shoulders and keeping him in place. "You don't--have to tell them anything you don't want to tell them, Martin. But they're looking for you, and it's only decent to let them know they don't have to, anymore, don't you think? And Carolyn and Arthur will want to know that you're--back." He doesn't say "safe", because Martin doesn't look safe at all. "I'll take care of everything. You don't have to say or do anything you don't want to."

Had Douglas thought tears would be an improvement on Martin's condition? He'd been wrong. Martin's tears are silent, unsurprisingly, and his frail body seems to collapse under the weight of them. Tentatively, Douglas puts a hand on his shoulder, and when the shaking only gets worse, he thinks, _sod it_ , and draws Martin down against his side.

"Better?" he murmurs, when Martin grows still again. "I walked here, I'm afraid, but I don't live far away. Why don't we go back to my house, and I can make you something to eat while we decide what to do, all right?"

Martin opens his mouth, and Douglas's heart leaps, because it really does look as though he's about to speak. But then his mouth shuts again, and he expels a long breath. There is just the faintest hint of a vocalization at the back of the sigh, and Douglas is relieved to hear it. Perhaps it's a beginning.

As they walk the half-mile back to the house, Douglas's hand hovers at the small of Martin's back, never quite touching him, but near enough to catch him if he falls, or tries to run. He doesn't want to even hint at doing anything that will alarm Martin in this condition, but at the same time he isn't going to take the slightest risk of losing him again--if Martin tries to flee, Douglas is prepared to tackle him, and hold him in an iron embrace while the ambulance arrives. He needs to go to hospital, he's clearly ill from exhaustion and malnutrition, even if he's not hiding any other injuries, but Douglas is going to wait to bring it up until they're safely inside, and the door locked behind them. 

When they reach the house, Douglas sets restraint aside and puts a hand between Martin's shoulder blades, which jut like arrow-heads under his thin jacket. He guides him through the front hall, into the kitchen, and seats him at the table, then turns to fill the kettle.

"Here," says Douglas. He opens a kitchen drawer and takes out the ordinary lined notebook he keeps there to jot down recipe notes and grocery lists. He places the notebook in front of Martin and sets one of his own fountain pens down on top of it. "In case there's anything you want to tell me."

Martin's hand closes over the pen. He picks it up, weighing its heft between his fingers. Douglas hasn't written with anything else since he starting making enough money to afford quality writing utensils, but Martin seems to find it an unfamiliar and intimidating bulk in his hand. He uncaps it, and his hand hovers over the open page.

 _Thank you, Douglas_ , he writes, in surprisingly elegant script. Douglas is a little surprised; not many young people have handwriting like that anymore, in this age of computers and texting.

"Think nothing of it," he says, as the kettle comes to a boil. He makes an entire pot of tea, instead of two lonely mugs, and he adds three heaping spoonfuls of sugar directly to the pot. They both need it, he suspects.

"What would you like to do first?" he says. "Would you like food? A shower? I'm afraid my things will be large for you, but they'll be clean at least." Martin doesn't look dirty, precisely, but his hair doesn't look as if it's been washed recently, and his clothes have the dingy, soft look of clothes that have been slept in repeatedly. 

Martin nods, and Douglas decides to take the interpretive liberty of assuming that he's saying yes to all of the above--food, shower, and clothes. "The bathroom is upstairs on the right," he says. "Put your clothes out the door. I'll pop them in the washing machine and leave some others for you. I'll get some lunch started while you're showering."

Martin stares down at the table for so long that Douglas wonders if he'd even heard what he'd just said. Finally, Douglas touches his elbow, and when Martin doesn't flinch, he takes hold of his arm and tugs him gently to his feet. Martin allows Douglas to guide him up the stairs, to the bathroom, and he's relieved when Martin takes the initiative of shutting the door in his face when they arrive.

He goes to his bedroom and finds a pair of soft trousers and a t-shirt his daughter had bought for him, two sizes too small. Martin's clothes are in a pile in the hall when he returns, and the shower is running. He gather's Martin's clothes, dropping the others in their place, and carries the bundle downstairs.

There's the windbreaker, but there's no shirt. There are jeans, but no underwear. The back of the navy windbreaker is strangely stiff, as though something has been spilled on it and then dried. Douglas turns it inside out. The reverse side is lined with white, and the white fabric is heavily streaked with dried blood.

Douglas feels his gorge rise, and his knees weaken. He braces himself against the wall, and when his breathing calms, he stows the clothing in a plastic bag. He'll hand it over to the police, and buy Martin replacements, if necessary.


	4. Chapter 4

Martin comes downstairs half an hour later. The shower's been running the whole time, and Douglas wonders what, precisely, Martin had been washing away under the hot water.

"It's just cheese on toast and some tomato soup," he says, indicating the plate and the steaming bowl on the table. "I hadn't anything else in, but I'll make something decent later. Or we'll get a takeaway, if you like."

Martin is swimming in Douglas's clothes. He looks like a boy, a skinny, neglected child, and he stares down at the food like he doesn't know what to do with it. At length, he sits, and his hand is shaking so badly that he drops the spoon when first he lifts it to his mouth. Douglas wonders if he should offer to help, but Martin picks the spoon up again, a determined line furrowing his brow, and manages to down a swallow. Douglas feels ridiculously relieved and proud of him, and then he feels infuriated that Martin, proud, neurotic, capable Martin has been reduced to the point that managing to feed himself seems like a victory.

Douglas sits at the table, watching Martin eat, holding his undrunk tea in his hands. Only when Martin pushes the dishes back--he'd managed less than half of the soup, and three bites of the toast--does he speak. 

"What would you like to do first?" he says. "Call the police, or call Carolyn?"

Douglas clears the dishes from the table to give Martin time to formulate a reply without Douglas staring at him. But when he turns back to the table, Martin isn't holding the pen. He's just staring at the notebook, as though the blank spaces frighten him.

"Martin, I know--at least, I can sense, that this is terribly difficult for you. But you needn't be afraid, I swear. The police will want to see you, to confirm that you're here, but they can't make you talk to them if you don't want, and I won't let them pressure you. As to Carolyn and Arthur, you don't need to see them. Carolyn will understand, and she'll keep Arthur in check. Although if you've a craving for a mountain of welcome-back Toblerones, I'm sure Arthur would be happy to oblige you."

A smile. Faint, and fleeting, but welcome as rain after a long dry August. Douglas slumps in his chair a bit.

"Also--I have to ask." Douglas hesitates. "Are you hurt? I couldn't help noticing there was blood on your clothing."

Martin's eyes shut for a moment. He picks up the pen and writes, and Douglas reads his writing upside down. _Not badly._

Douglas narrows his eyes. "Will you show me?" he says. "Forgive me, but I don't think you're the best judge of that, just now."

Martin sets the pen down, then flattens his hand against the table. Douglas waits, but when Martin neither writes anything more nor makes a visible objection, he rises and comes behind Martin's chair.

"I'm just going to lift your shirt," he says, and drags the hem of it up Martin's back. Martin shudders, but he doesn't jerk away. Douglas looks down, and bites down hard on his tongue to stop himself crying out.

Martin's back is a constellation of wounds. Lacerations, for the most part, but also bruises, and a few irregular shaped scabs that look like burns. There is hardly a square inch of intact skin from the taper of his waist to the tops of his shoulders. They're in various stages of healing, none of them less than two days old, if he's any judge. And he's fairly certain that underneath the fresh wounds lie scars of older cuts and burns that have healed.

Douglas's hand is shaking when he pulls Martin's shirt down again.

"Change of plans," he says. "We're going to the hospital. The police can wait."


	5. Chapter 5

Douglas half expects Martin to flinch again, maybe even bolt for the door. But Martin just picks up the pen.

_No hospital. No doctors._

"Martin, you have to." Douglas wants to snap at him, but that's just his own anger and anxiety looking for a target. He walks around Martin's chair and comes to stand before him. Martin doesn't look up, so Douglas sits in the chair beside him and rests his elbows on his knees, to bring his eyes down to Martin's level. "You will get an infection if you don't, and as weak as you are an infection might very well kill you."

Martin doesn't react to this at all. It's like the possibility of his death doesn't even faze him, and Douglas wonders whether it's because Martin is numb, or because whatever has happened to him has brought him face to face with death so often that the prospect has lost all its terror. He doesn't let himself contemplate the third possibility, that Martin no longer cares whether he lives or dies. Douglas won't allow that. He'll do enough caring for both of them, if he has to.

"Why don't you want to go to the hospital?" he says, forcing his tone to remain gentle. It's a continuous effort, because Douglas is aching with the need to do violence of some sort. "Are you--afraid that someone will--find you?"

Martin shudders, like icy wind has swept through the kitchen. 

"You don't need to be afraid," Douglas tells him. "No one is going to hurt you. I--whatever's happened to you, whoever's done this to you--I won't let them near you, I swear." 

He means it, God, he's never meant anything so much in his life. Three times he's stood before an altar and vowed to cherish and protect his wives, but this feels more like the moment he first held his daughter in his arms and knew, for the first time, that his own happiness and peace of mind would forever more be dependent on the helpless creature before him. There is something uniquely frightening about loving someone who cannot defend themself, like his heart has been excised from his chest and gone wandering through the world where anyone might crush it.

Martin, still holding the pen, pulls the notebook toward him again. _You can't protect me._

"Yes, I can," says Douglas firmly. He covers the back of Martin's hand with his own. "You have no idea. I--I'm not really a nice person, Martin. I'm capable of more than you know."

_If anything happens, you have to run. Promise me._

"I can't promise that." Douglas stares at the side of Martin's face, entirely consternated. Is this brainwashing, or has the boy gone and got himself mixed up in something truly dire? "Do you seriously think I would ever run away and leave you to--no, Martin. No."

 _Then I have to leave._ Martin's handwriting is shaky now.

"You aren't going anywhere." Douglas says it like he's giving an order, something he hasn't done since he last held the rank of captain, which is longer ago than he cares to remember. "Come now, do you really think you can escape me, in your condition? You're stuck, I'm afraid."

Martin doesn't react to the levity. He's clutching the pen tightly; if it were a pencil it would have snapped by now.

_I would rather die than let them have you._

Douglas chokes on a breath. What the devil does he mean by that? Martin is noble, yes, even a touch quixotic, but he'd never suspected him of being a martyr. And who is "them"?

And since when is Douglas more important to him than his own life?

"Martin..." Douglas scrubs a hand across his face. He's been riding the tide of adrenaline up to now, but the reality of the situation is beginning to descend on him--Martin, here, alive, after so very long. "What do you want me to say? I've only just got you back. I'm not losing you again."

The pen slips from Martin's hand. The spark of liveliness that had animated him in the last few minutes flickers and dies, and he is, again, little more than a husk.

 _Triage,_ Douglas reminds himself. "Come upstairs with me. I've a first aid kit. We'll--talk about proper medical attention later."

When Martin doesn't move, Douglas, tugs him to his feet again. Martin sways, and Douglas slips an arm around his waist, careful not to put pressure against his back. He hauls Martin up the stairs to his bedroom and tells him to take his shirt off and lie down. 

Douglas walks down the corridor to the bathroom and stops there a moment, leaning against the sink, with his eyes closed. Can he really do this alone, be Martin's sole source of care and safety, when he's so desperately damaged? He's not certain he trusts himself. Clever, wily as he is, he's never been in this situation before. Half of him still can't believe Martin is really here, and Douglas is terrified that he'll slip through his fingers like water.

 _Pull yourself together, Richardson_ he tells himself. _Have a breakdown later. Martin needs you._

Douglas wipes at his wet face impatiently and stoops to retrieve the first aid kit from the cupboard beneath the sink. He straightens, carrying it down the corridor into the bedroom.

The covers are rumpled, but the bed is empty, and Martin is gone.


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next 24 hours Douglas becomes increasingly convinced that he's lost his mind.

A quick search of the house reveals no trace of Martin. Neither does a breathless dash up and down the street in front of his house. A painstaking search of the house not only fails to turn up Martin hiding beneath a bed or in a cupboard--it also fails to turn up any evidence that he was ever there. The notebook and pen are back in their drawer, and the notebook contains nothing but recipes and old grocery lists. Martin's bloodstained clothing is missing from the plastic bag (though the plastic bag is still on top of the washing machine.) Douglas himself had already poured out the remnants of Martin's soup and fed the sandwich into the garbage disposal, as well as washed and dried the dishes he'd used.

Only the teapot, with its one mug, remains to give any indication that he's done more than sit in a corner and hallucinate for the last forty-five minutes.

Douglas grabs his keys and heads to his car, driving back to the bridge first, and then up and down every street in a five mile vicinity, covering a far broader territory than Martin could possibly have escaped to on foot. He doesn't let himself contemplate the other option, that Martin was taken by someone. Douglas would have heard. He'd locked the door after them, and the door was still locked when he let himself out to check the street.

Finally, on the edge of utter hysteria, Douglas returns home and calls the police. A very uncomfortable interview follows, in which the police poke around his belongings, and finally suggest that Douglas's grief has driven him mad. They don't say it outright, but that's the implication. Douglas is not reassured by the detective's assurance that police will monitor the bridge and the surrounding area. Douglas is not the most credible of witnesses at the moment. If he were calmer, he wouldn't even blame them for their skepticism.

Finally, when the police have gone and Douglas is left to sit and stare at his hands, he realizes that he's nearer than he's ever been in eleven years to chucking his sobriety out the window. So he does the only thing he can do. He drives to Carolyn's house, breaking speed limits on the way to stop him from looking too longing at the pubs as he passes them.

"Douglas." Irritation and bafflement pass over her face, before giving way to concern. In the five years they've known each other, Douglas has never turned up on her doorstep like this. "What on earth--"

"Let me in, please." His voice is rusted. "I need to talk about Martin."

Carolyn's eyes widen, then she shakes her head and moves to let him pass through the door.

Arthur is out, thank merciful Providence, so Douglas is able to sit on Carolyn's sofa and drink her tea without tasting it while he tells Carolyn the whole sorry story. She doesn't react visibly, for which he's grateful, but her breath catches several times.

"I wasn't hallucinating, Carolyn," he says. "I half-carried him to my house. Christ, I could smell his hair." It's more than he meant to admit. Even he hasn't entirely come to terms with the fact that he used to notice what Martin's hair smelled like.

"It certainly doesn't seem like a Douglas Richardson sort of hallucination," she says, and relief pools in his stomach, warmer than any whiskey. "If you really were going around the twist, your subconscious would undoubtedly provide a scenario that flattered your ego. You'd sweep in like a pirate with a cutlass between your teeth and carry the damsel off to safety."

"Thank you for that, I think."

"All the same, don't tell Arthur. If Martin doesn't turn up again--well, you remember what he was like at first. He's only just started to enjoy Toblerones again."

"No, I--I wouldn't."

Carolyn rises. "There's a guest room at the end of the hall on the first floor. I'll just go and put some clean sheets on."

Douglas looks up, a protest on the tip of his tongue, but Carolyn looks down at him sternly. Douglas remembers how many pubs there are between Carolyn's house and his (four) and sighs.

"Thank you," he says. 

Carolyn's hand comes to rest on his shoulder for a moment before she leaves.

Douglas doesn't sleep well, and when he wakes up it is late, far later than he usually gets up in the mornings. Arthur and Carolyn are gone, to his relief, so he makes himself a cup of tea, then drives home. But when he gets home, everything he looks at reminds him of Martin, and when he finds himself inhaling deeply, trying to catch a hint of his scent, he realizes he'll go mad in earnest if he lingers, so he goes out for a walk. 

It isn't entirely intentional that he ends up on the bridge again, but once he arrives, he realizes there was nowhere else he was ever going to go.

Douglas comes to stand in the same spot where he'd first glimpsed Martin looking down at the water. The shock of seeing Martin alive after six months had clouded Douglas's ability to read the situation, but now as he stares into the dark river, he is crushingly aware of the bleak, pathetic life he lives, the loneliness that leaves him too numb to even be desperate, and he thinks--not about jumping, exactly, that isn't his style, but about death and what a bloody relief it must be.

And then he thinks, that's what Martin was feeling, when he stood here. 

He chokes on the sob that rises from his chest, fighting it down, because what the hell has he got to cry about? It's Martin who's been--God knows what, kidnapped, tortured, imprisoned. Martin, who's somewhere in the world without a soul to care for him.

Was it better, Douglas wonders, to have glimpsed Martin and gained that tantalizing assurance that he was alive and walking, if not well? Or would he prefer to be ignorant still, confident of his own sanity, every day more resigned to the fact that Martin was gone forever?

No,, Douglas thinks fiercely. He would rather believe in Martin, even madly, than take the chance that he is alive, and not be looking for him. Even if it comes to nothing, even if they see each other again. Martin deserves to have someone believe in him.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, staring down at the water, but it's long enough to grow hypnotized. Long enough, that when a hand touches his arm, he jerks from his reverie as though to the noise of a cannon blast.

Martin is standing at his side. Grey and thin and even more wasted looking than yesterday.

Wearing the same windbreaker and jeans he'd worn before.


	7. Chapter 7

Douglas can't speak. He doesn't even particularly want to. He fears that the force of the air escaping from his lungs might make Martin dissolve into mist.

Martin stands there looking at him with mournful eyes set into deeply shadowed sockets. His hands are thrust into the pockets of his windbreaker, and he doesn't look like someone who's feeling apologetic about having pulled a runner and driven his friend half mad with anxiety. He looks like someone with a secret he can't tell.

"Where…" Douglas nearly whispers the words, like he's afraid of being overheard. "Where have you been?"

Martin looks down at the pavement.

"You are--" Douglas wants desperately to touch Martin, but he's afraid to. "You are here, aren't you?"

Martin huffs a breathless laugh and shrugs.

Slowly, Douglas reaches out and ghosts his fingers over Martin's face. He feels solid flesh beneath the pads of his fingertips, flesh that's chilled by the wind but still warm underneath. His hand comes to settle on Martin's shoulder and he squeezes. Martin's hand settles on top of his and for a moment they stand like that, connected.

"Right," says Douglas. "I--I don't want to frighten you off, Martin, but I hope you understand--I have to call someone."

Martin shrugs again, the sort of shrug that clearly says, _if you must_. Douglas plants a hand against Martin's back and guides him over to the same bench where they'd sat yesterday. He pushes Martin down onto it and stands before him, the better to block any escape (or any attempt to snatch him away.)

He takes out his phone and calls Carolyn's house.

"Hello, you've reached the residence of Mrs Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, and Arthur Shappey, her son. This is Arthur. Well, obviously I'm Arthur, I don't sound much like a Carolyn, do I? How can I help you?"

Any other time, Douglas would point out that phone calls to private homes aren't normally answered like calls to the front desk of a bank. "Arthur, it's Douglas, is your mother home?"

"Oh, hello, Douglas." Since Martin first went missing, Arthur's never quite regained his previous levels of ebullience. He's always a sparkle or two short of his former shine. But he makes an effort, with Douglas, and on Gerti, as though he's able to sense how much it distresses his friends for Arthur not to be…Arthur, anymore. "No, I'm afraid Mum's at the airfield."

Fitton Airfield is twenty minutes from the bridge. Carolyn's house is less than ten. Obviously, Arthur isn't the first person Douglas would choose to rely on in a crisis, but for this particular crisis, there isn't anyone else. "Arthur, do you know the bridge off the high street? There's a little park just behind it, against the river. Would you come and meet me here, please, immediately?"

"Sure, Douglas." Arthur brightens just a bit, in the unaccountable way he does whenever someone asks him to do anything. "Be right there."

Martin is looking at him as he hangs up. The arch of his eyebrows clearly says, _Arthur, Douglas? Really?_

"I haven't got a whole boatload of options," Douglas says tersely, sitting down beside him. "Will you just tell me, Martin--why did you leave yesterday?"

Martin stares at his shoes, and Douglas pats his pocket, producing a pen and a folded receipt from his last lunch out. He passes them to Martin, who writes: _No choice._

"If this is about-- _protecting_ me, again--"

Martin taps the paper with the pen, for emphasis. _No choice_.

"All right." Douglas glances up toward the road, though of course Arthur can't be anywhere near them yet. "Tell me who hurt you. You don't have to tell me why, or any details, just--a name. Anything that will identify them."

Martin's hand freezes. He looks away from Douglas, his lips parted slightly. Douglas's heart sinks, and the rest of him seems to catch fire. He's never seen Martin look properly afraid before. He hates it, and he'll do anything he has to to make it stop.

"It's okay," he says, as soothingly as he can, considering how badly he wants something to punch. "Do you know his--his or her name?" Martin had said them, earlier, hadn't he? "Is it more than one person?"

A shudder travels through Martin's body.

"Please." Douglas leans closer to him. "Tell me what I need to know so I can protect you."

The pen scratches across the paper, balanced on Martin's knee. _You can't_.

"Well, not if you don't help me!" He can't stop his voice rising with frustration. "I don't care what they've told you, or how hard they are. This is _me_ , Martin. I'm not going to hare off in a blaze of fisticuffs, however satisfying that would be. I'll be careful. I'll even let the police handle it, if they can, but I need you to give me a clue."

Martin simply shakes his head. His eyes are bright, and Douglas isn't sure if it's with tears or fever. 

"All right, let's do this. Have they--had you, all this time you've been gone?"

A tiny, almost imperceptible nod of the head.

"And you--escaped?" He looks at the backs of Martin's hands, cut and bruised, like he'd clawed his way out of…something. Martin shrugs again.

"What does that mean, you shrugging? They let you go? Or--or you didn't escape." The air evacuates Douglas's lungs, like he's been hit in the solar plexus. "Oh God, did you go back to them yesterday? Is it--do they still have some kind of hold on you?"

Martin's face screws up, and the expression is so pained that Douglas knows he's hit upon the truth, or part of it. 

"Martin, I don't care what they're threatening you with, you can't go back." Douglas seizes Martin's arm, wrapping his fingers around his wrist like a handcuff. "Christ, what they've already done to you--they'll hurt you again, they'll probably kill you."

Martin doesn't try to pull away. He just holds up the receipt again, his finger pointing to the words, _No choice._

There's no reasoning with someone who won't even properly argue with him. But that's fine; Douglas doesn't need Martin's cooperation. He's not letting Martin go again, he's not going to take his hand off him until Martin's in a private room in a hospital with a police guard at the door. 

"Where have they been keeping you?" Douglas demands. "Is it in Fitton?"

Another shrug. Douglas thinks he's got the hang of Martin's shrugs now. This one seems to say, _too complicated to explain with gestures and a tiny scrap of paper._

"Can you describe it at all?"

Martin's fingers tighten around the pen. He tugs against Douglas's grip, and Douglas lets him go long enough for Martin to write, _Dark._

"That's all? Six months they've had you, just--in the dark?"

Martin's silence has the feeling of a confirmation. Abruptly, Douglas changes his mind about involving the police. No court in the land can do proper justice to people who would cut and burn and beat Martin and keep him _in the dark_ for six months. 

"Martin." He hates that his voice is so unsteady. He's never at his best in the grip of powerful emotion, and Martin needs him to be his best. "Did you know I would be here yesterday? Did--did you come for me?"

Douglas is an eloquent man, but he has no name for the feeling that wraps tentacles around his heart when Martin nods.

"What about _them_ , whoever they are, do they know about me somehow? Is that why you left yesterday, because you think they'll come for me?"

Martin shuts his eyes tightly. He leans his elbows on his knees and fists his fingers in his hair, yanking it by the roots so tightly that Douglas is sure he's hurting himself. He takes Martin's wrists and pulls his hands away, threading their fingers together and squeezing. Martin's breathing is ragged, and he jerks away, seizing the paper and etching words into it with a ferocity that tears the paper.

_THEY ALREADY HAVE._


	8. Chapter 8

Douglas is still staring at the paper, trying to comprehend it the words Martin has written on it, when a shout in the distance draws his attention. He's too stunned, too confused, to resist when Martin pulls away from him. He blinks a few times, then looks out over toward the bridge. Arthur is standing there at the railing, waving both arms at them. 

"Honestly," Douglas mutters, and cups his hands to his mouth. "Here, Arthur!"

Arthur jumps up and down a couple of times, then starts running. When he's halfway across the grassy lawn that separates them, Douglas turns to make certain that Martin's all right and not about to bolt again.

But the bench beside him is empty. There's nothing left behind to indicate Martin was ever there. Even the scrap of paper is gone, though the pen is lying in the grass, like Martin had simply dropped it there.

Douglas wonders if he's having a heart attack. There's nothing around them, no trees, no cover, nowhere to hide, nowhere anyone could have been hiding while they talked. Martin has vanished, again, and this time there are only two options, with no deniability to cushion them. Either Martin has dissolved into thin air, or Douglas is losing his mind. And people don't dissolve into thin air, do they?

By the time Arthur reaches him, Douglas has collapsed onto the bench again, and the tears are unstoppable, they can't be hid. God, he far gone must he be, dissolving like this in front of _Arthur_? But it's too much. The fear, the loneliness, the realization that a lifetime of thinking he's clever has yielded nothing but failed marriages, an estranged child, a career in tatters, and Martin being snatched away from him _three times_. What's the use of Douglas Richardson, after all? He's a con man, conning himself into thinking he's anything but a failure.

"Douglas." Arthur's on his knees, looking up into Douglas's face. Douglas turns away from him, but Arthur grasps his shoulders. "What's happened, are you all right? Please be all right, Douglas."

Douglas makes to bat Arthur's hands away, but somehow he finds himself holding onto the younger man instead. After a few seconds Arthur gets up and sits down on the bench, sliding his arm around Douglas's back. He's a warm, solid counterpoint to the chilly spring air, and he feels nothing at all like Martin. Douglas would be afraid of breaking Martin, leaning on him like this.

"It's okay," says Arthur calmly. "No need to talk, till you want to. You might want a hankie, though. Here, use mine."

He presses the linen square into Douglas's hand, and Douglas mops his face with it. He can feel the puffiness of his face, the deepening of the lines and wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. He's a stupid old man at last, leaning on children for strength. 

"I'm sorry, Arthur," he manages to say, after a bit. "I've called you here for nothing, it seems."

Arthur doesn't seem terribly concerned about that. "What got you so upset?" he asks. "Did that man say something to you?"

Douglas's head snaps up, and he looks at Arthur through wet eyes. "What man?"

"The chap you were sitting with when I got here."

Douglas grabs Arthur's arm. He's not being gentle, at all, but Arthur doesn't wince or complain. "Arthur. This is vitally important. The man you saw. What did he look like?"

"I dunno," muses Arthur. "Short? Sort of skinny? I mean, for a moment, I did think…"

" _What_ , Arthur?"

"He reminded me a bit of Skip." Arthur frowns. "Oh, no. Is that why you got upset, because he reminded you of Skip too?"

Douglas very nearly gathers Arthur into a bear hug. Instead, he makes Arthur get into his car, and go to his house. 

Once inside, Douglas tells him everything.


	9. Chapter 9

"I don't think you're mad, Douglas," says Arthur, when he's finished.

It says something about Douglas's state of mind that this assurance actually makes him feel better. "Well, obviously I'm not, if you saw him too. That doesn't explain how he disappeared from plain sight."

"He wasn't in plain sight of me, though," says Arthur. "I was looking down at my phone to see if I had a new text, and when I looked up again, he was gone. And you had your back to him."

"True."

"And the last time he disappeared, you weren't in the room, right?"

"That's right." Douglas frowns at Arthur. "What are you getting at?"

"Well," says Arthur, "I know it sounds a bit funny, because people aren't supposed to do that sort of thing, but I couldn't help thinking, what if Skip can only stay as long as other people are looking at him?"

"What, like a bogeyman who'd doesn't exist if you _can't_ see him?" Douglas sighs tiredly. "I rather doubt it, Arthur."

"No, not like a bogeyman." Uncharacteristically, Arthur doesn't deflate under Douglas's criticism. "Like…some poor chap who's all alone in the world, and doesn't have anyone to notice when he's sad. I mean--you remember what Skip's like, about letting people know when he's having a hard time. He gets all funny and quiet and doesn't talk much and doesn't look people in the eye. And that's when he's with us. Just imagine, if he's--if he's being kept some place for a really long time by horrible people who are hurting him. He'd probably think we'd forget about him, after awhile. He can be a bit silly like that, sometimes."

Douglas stares at Arthur a bit. He does have a disconcerting talent for displaying insight at the most unexpected moments. "Your appraisal of Martin's special brand of idiocy is probably right on the nose," he admits. "All the same, it's not likely to endow him with magical powers."

"No, I don't see how that would work." Arthur slumps in his chair. "All the same, Douglas, he did disappear. And you were standing right there."

"I could more easily believe that Martin had developed cheetah-like speed than the ability to teleport. Or fly."

"You said he was hurt, though. How could he have run fast, if he was that hurt?"

Douglas leans his forehead against his hands. "I don't know, Arthur."

Arthur sits in silent for a minute or so, frowning down into his tea. He had insisted on being the one to make it, because Douglas was upset, and therefore he is the only one drinking it, because Douglas isn't actually suicidal yet. Though he might be getting there. If he's honest, now he knows Arthur's seen Martin, it isn't Martin's mysterious disappearance that's clawing at his chest--it's the conviction that the idiot boy has returned to people who'd stolen him away, and beaten and hurt him and kept him in the dark. Douglas had sworn not to let him go, not to take his hand off him, and yet he'd done it. Like when his daughter was six and disappeared into the crowds at the supermarket, because Douglas had started chatting up an attractive woman over the asparagus in the produce section.

"What do you think Martin meant," says Arthur, after a bit, "when he said they'd come for you, already?"

"I honestly don't know." Douglas scratches at his arm. "Just Martin being paranoid, I imagine." Douglas rises. "Come along, then, I'll drive you home."

"Oh. All right. Are you sure you want to be alone, though? You don't, um. Seem very…okay."

Douglas shakes his head. "I'm fine." It's a far cry from the truth, of course, but he hardly sees what good it will do either of them, unburdening his soul to Arthur. What does a benign idiot of 29 know about failures of this magnitude?

They're just heading toward the door when Arthur glances down at him, and frowns. "Have you hurt your arm, Douglas?"

"What?"

"It looks like blood, on your shirt. Just there."

Douglas frowns, and looks where Arthur is pointing. There is, in fact, a thin streak of rusty red blood seeping through the light blue cotton of his shirt, which makes no sense, because Douglas hasn't rolled up his sleeves all day. He unbuttons the cuff and slides the sleeve up. There's a long, shallow gash traveling up the inside of his arm, nearly to the elbow.

"Oh, that looks ouchy." Arthur winces sympathetically. "How did you do that?"

Douglas stares at the wound. "I have no idea."


	10. Chapter 10

Douglas takes Arthur home. He doesn't talk much on the way, and he doesn't really hear anything Arthur says to him. Afterwards, he drives back to the bridge and parks his car on the street. He rolls up his sleeve, staring at the secret wound on his forearm. It's deeper than before, and now there are other marks as well--three shallow scratches, as though from a clawed animal, and a couple of faint, thumbprint-sized red bruises near his wrist. He has a strange, unshakeable conviction that they're going to get worse, unless--

 _Unless what._ That's the question, isn't it?

Douglas thinks of Martin, with his welted, bleeding back. He thinks of all the other places he might have been hiding wounds that Douglas hasn't seen. Martin is good at hiding things, apparently. Had he felt this before his disappearance, as though the place reserved for him in the universe was growing smaller, edging him into nothingness? Douglas hadn't had the slightest clue, and Martin hadn't said a word.

If Martin had tried to tell Douglas about it, would Douglas have been any use at all? Or would the boy have turned away with an ache in his heart and a few fresh corruptions marring his pale skin?

Douglas wonders if it would be any comfort to Martin if he knew that Douglas is just as alone now, just as _pathetic_ as Martin ever was--more so, really, because it's one thing to be hopeless when you're just starting out in life, and another thing to achieve a certain amount of worldly splendor and then squander it all before the end of middle-age. He knows one thing for certain, and that's if he disappears tomorrow into some unnamed darkness, no one will be waiting for him at any bridge. The people who know him will banish him from their memory as eagerly as a guilty thought. And Douglas wouldn't blame them in the slightest.

He sleeps in the park that night, on the bench. Eleven-thirty am finds him standing on the bridge, walking up and down the pavement. 

At noon, Martin appears again.

He turns up between one blink of an eye and another, just like before, and when Douglas spots him he's looking at him mournfully across the distance, as though he's come bearing bad news. Douglas hurries forward, pushing past a young woman behind a pram and an old man with heavy shopping. He seizes Martin by the shoulders and shakes him until his head snaps back.

"What the _hell_ is happening?" he demands. "Open your mouth and just bloody tell me, Martin!"

Martin reaches up to touch Douglas's face. He looks so sad, so _lost_ , that Douglas forgets any fear he had for himself. He pulls Martin hard against his chest and wraps his arms around his narrow body, and Martin holds onto him like he hasn't touched anything so warm or solid in his life.

"Don't tell me there's no way out of this," Douglas says. "We're here now, you and I. I _love_ you. What could be more important? How could any amount of…of sorrow or pain matter more than that?"

Martin makes a strangled noise, and he wraps his arms around Douglas's neck, holding him with a strength would never have thought he possessed.

"I see you," Douglas whispers. "I see you even when you're not here. You won't disappear, I won't let you. I'll never take my eyes off you again. There is no darkness that can hide you from me."

They stand there, together, for a long time, Martin shuddering in Douglas's arms. Finally, Douglas pulls back, just a bit, still gripping Martin's shoulders.

"Come with me now," he says, and Martin exhales, nodding.

Douglas leads Martin to the car with a hand on his elbow. He makes Martin scoot into the passenger's seat through the driver's side door. The whole way to Carolyn's house, he keeps his hand on Martin's hand, and when they reach Carolyn's street, he walks Martin to the front door. There's no space to speak of between them.

Every muscle in Douglas's body is tensed as he waits for Carolyn to open the door. Martin is looking down at the doormat, and if he's breathing Douglas can't feel it. Finally, he hears the echo of approaching footsteps, and the door swings open. Carolyn is frowning, but then she looks up and her mouth forms a perfect O.

"My God," she whispers, her eyes turning bright. " _Martin_."

Martin's head jerks up. He stares at Carolyn with huge eyes, and Douglas realizes that all this time Martin's only been humoring him, that he never for a second thought Carolyn would be able to see him. Carolyn steps forward, and with tremulous hands she takes gentle hold of Martin's face. 

"Your poor boy," she breathes. "What have they done to you?"

Martin's face crumbles, and Carolyn doesn't hesitate. She pulls him down and presses his head to her shoulder, and Martin weeps.

He doesn't let go of Douglas's hand.

"Come in," she murmurs. "Both of you, come in before we all freeze to death."

Not until the sigh forces itself from Douglas's lips does he realize that, for a few moments, he'd wondered if it hadn't been him who was invisible now, if he hadn't somehow traded places with Martin, a sacrifice for his return to the world. He wouldn't have done anything differently, if that had been the case, but he is glad there is room for them both. 

"Mum?" Arthur's voice, drawing nearer. "Is everything--Skip? Skip!"

Carolyn pulls Martin into the house, and Martin pulls Douglas along after him.


	11. Chapter 11

Douglas and Martin spend the night at Carolyn's house. They share a room. Douglas never lets a door shut between them if he can help it, and he touches Martin whenever possible. To Douglas, it is necessary, and Martin doesn't seem to mind.

That night, as soon as they're alone, Douglas asks Martin to remove his shirt and lie down on the bed. He does so, and Douglas runs his fingers lightly over the damage visible on his back. He doesn't bother with a first aid kit, just as he hasn't bothered with disinfecting his arm. He simply touches, observes, catalogues with a variety of senses. He's bearing witness, he feels, to pain that has gone unwitnessed in silence and darkness for most of Martin's lifetime.

When they turn the lights out that night, Martin's back is a little smoother, clean pink lines taking the place of some of the deep scarlet gashes, but Douglas's arms are now a welter of shallow cuts and faint bruises. 

It's the next morning when Martin speaks for the first time. They're about to go downstairs and eat breakfast with Carolyn and Arthur. Douglas is pulling his shoes on, and Martin is sitting beside him on the bed, staring at the back of his hand, which still bears traces of ink.

"Need a pen?" says Douglas, when he notices.

"I--" Martin's voice is hoarse, little more than a whisper, but it arrests Douglas's attention like a fish hook catching his eye lid. "I don't know what happened to me."

"Don't you?" 

"No." Martin takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Just--I closed my eyes one day. When I opened them again, it was dark. And I--I wasn't surprised, somehow. It felt…natural. Like it had happened before. Like it was always going to happen."

Douglas edges closer to him. "What was it like?"

"Like falling." Martin's voice is low, but stronger than before. "Like the opposite of flying. But then, it was as though I could hear--you, calling my name. And suddenly, I was afraid. I wasn't afraid before."

" _I_ made you afraid?" Douglas threads their fingers together.

"I thought that if I could hear you, it meant you were there. With me. I didn't want you to be there. So I went looking for you. I--thought I could show you the way out again. But I almost dragged you down with me."

Martin turns Douglas arm so that the palm faces up. He runs his fingers up and down the inside of Douglas's arm, tracing the swollen red lines. Douglas pulls his hand free and touches the side of Martin's face.

"I don't think that's what happened at all," he says. "I think I was already on my way down, and you gave me a reason to climb."

They go downstairs together, and eat Carolyn's pancakes. Arthur shows them around the house, then makes them watch a movie with talking animals in it. Before any of them knows it, it's time for lunch, and then dinner, and then it's night again, and Carolyn shoos them back upstairs into the guest room. Douglas feels like a prisoner of war who's tunneled under the barricades and returned home to the arms of his comrades, because in the midst of the celebration there is a common wariness, as though they are shoring themselves up against threat of further attack.

That night, he dreams that he's standing alone in a stage, before an audience of cheering spectators. In the crowd he can see the faces of old friends, dead family, lovers and wives he has lost, and his daughter, smiling at him from the first row. He doesn't know exactly what it means, but he feels whole and real beneath their watching eyes, in a way he hasn't in his waking life for longer than he can remember.

When he wakes up beside Martin the next morning, his arm is thrown across the boy's chest, and the first thing he sees is that the wounds inscribed on both their bodies have begun to fade into new, delicate scars. Martin's are fewer, and Douglas has more, as though the damage has been redistributed, Martin's burden shared. But above Martin's right shoulder blade there are three fading scratches, like claw marks, and when Douglas looks at his arm, he finds that his matching mark is gone. 

When Carolyn sends them home that day, she walks them out to the curb and thrusts wrapped packages of cakes into their arms (presents from Arthur, though at Carolyn's interdiction against baking them himself, he'd purchased them from a bakery.) She stands over them as they climb into the car, then bends down to peer through the window.

"No more vanishing acts," she says sternly. "No excuses. Don't take your eyes off each other."

"That, if I may say so, Carolyn, is the very opposite of our intentions."

She huffs, to hide a smile, and steps back to wave them goodbye. Douglas meets Martin's eyes in the mirror.

"Home?" he says.

Martin laughs. "Where is that?"

Douglas starts the engine. "With me, idiot," he says.


End file.
